Vergilius eBook

Five litters and some forty slaves, who bore and followed
them, were waiting in the court of the palace of the
Lady Lucia. Beyond the walls of white marble
a noble company was gathered that summer day.
There were the hostess and her daughter; three young
noblemen, the purple stripes on each angusticlave
telling of knightly rank; a Jewish prince in purple
and gold; an old philosopher, and a poet who had been
reading love lines. It was the age of pagan
chivalry, and one might imperil his future with poor
wit or a faulty epigram. Those older men had
long held the floor, and their hostess, seeking to
rally the young knights, challenged their skill in
courtly compliment.

“O men, who have forgotten the love of women
these days, look at her!”

So spoke the Lady Lucia—­she that was widow
of the Praefect Publius, who fell with half his cohort
in the desert wars.

She had risen from a chair of ebony enriched by cunning
Etruscan art—­four mounted knights charging
across its heavy back in armor of wrought gold.
She stopped, facing the company, between two columns
of white marble beautifully sculptured. Upon
each a vine rose, limberly and with soft leaves in
the stone, from base to capital. Her daughter
stood in the midst of a group of maids who were dressing
her hair.

“Arria, will you come to me?” said the
Lady Lucia.

The girl came quickly—­a dainty creature
of sixteen, her dark hair waving, under jewelled fillets,
to a knot behind. From below the knot a row
of curls fell upon the folds of her outer tunic.
It was a filmy, transparent thing—­this
garment—­through which one could see the
white of arm and breast and the purple fillets on
her legs.

“She is indeed beautiful in the yellow tunic.
I should think that scarlet rug had caught fire and
wrapped her in its flame,” said the poet Ovid.

“Nay, her heart is afire, and its light hath
the color of roses,” said an old philosopher
who sat by. “Can you not see it shining
through her cheeks?”

“Young sirs,” said the Lady Lucia, with
a happy smile, as she raised her daughter’s
hand, “now for your offers.”

It was a merry challenge, and shows how lightly they
treated a sacred theme those days.

First rose the grave senator, Aulus Valerius Maro
by name.

“Madame,” said he, stepping forward and
bowing low, “I offer my heart and my fortune,
and the strength of my arms and the fleetness of my
feet and the fair renown of my fathers.”

The Lady Lucia turned to her daughter with a look
of inquiry.

“Brave words are not enough,” said the
fair Roman maiden, smiling, as her eyes fell.

Then came the effeminate Gracus, in head-dress and
neckerchief, frilled robe and lady’s sandals.
He was of great sires who had borne the Roman eagles
into Gaul.

“Good lady,” said he, “I would give
my life.”

“And had I more provocation,” said Arria,
raising a jewelled bodkin, “I would take it.”